


Iridescence

by Aloice



Category: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Genre: 2E and concert script 2 shenanigans, F/M, pre-game and in-game material, probably halfway between T and M rating wise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-18 17:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloice/pseuds/Aloice
Summary: "2B told me... she told me she wanted you to... become a good person."2B/9S, on how they became 2B and 9S from #2 and #9 from Concert Script #2 (Project YoRHa).





	1. Shade

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite things about 2B and 9S' relationship is how they both became better people because of their relationship - 2B learning that there's more to YoRHa and the world than death and duty, and 9S learning that there are things and people worth living and smiling for. I'm especially intrigued by how 2B and 9S as we know them from the game have /apparently changed/ from how they once were according to concert #2 and #3, so this is an attempt at exploring that. Of course, this is my first character Automata fic (the pod one doesn't count) so my characterization is still super rough around the edges but hopefully it'll get better with time and edits :v

The piercing gaze from underneath the visor exposes you, almost makes you stutter. No longer any regular rhythmic clicks of the heels; he stares; you hold your composure.

You are an executioner.

There’s something frozen beneath his silver hair that you are not sure a sword could fracture.

“Glory to mankind,” he says, saluting, and you repeat the same mantra back to him a few weeks later, as you thrust your sword through his chest

_(just a little bit too hard)_

to shatter his black box.

 

 

It takes less than a minute to run from your room to his, yet by the time you’re outside his quarters, half of it has already gone up in smoke.

“We YoRHa don’t deserve to be loved,” the second 9S howls, fighting to hack you and the YoRHa mainframe at the same time, his words sounding more like those from an enraged machine than an elite android. You crucify him against his own wall and defuse the bomb he’s somehow smuggled up from Jackass’ work bench before it can blow up the entire Bunker (not to say _also everything else in orbit_ ). You only pick up his body at the very end, after all the fires have been put out and all the dust settled, and you think that’s the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him appear in two whole lives.

( _Why don’t we simply decommission or reprogram his model if he constantly – inevitably –  threatens the existence of the entire force?_

 _I trust you to do your job_ , the Commander responds severely, seemingly not in a mood to discuss the subject.)

 

 

It takes several more missions and a few more executions before you finally realize what the coldness is: a fundamental loneliness, painted over by cynicism and anger, a kind of volatile permafrost struggling against all the weight of the Earth’s crust. He watches the world with a wary eye always waiting to be disappointed. He seeks out forbidden intel and intentional sabotage even as he knows it will destroy him.

It is raining that day in the City Ruins when he finally loses it and tries to take up a sword (something, _anything_ ) against you. The Commander has willed the confrontation; the Bunker needs confirmation that you’ll be able to kill even a virus-enhanced subject. Even despite being a non-combat unit and through a damaged NFCS (and then motor systems, and then vision and memory) his slashes turn out to be wild and highly lethal, and you barely get the better of him when he finally crumbles, screaming and crying.

“There _is_ hope in this world, you know,” you tell him, more out of being extremely unsettled than any need to proclaim your moral and physical victory. He continues to thrash under your grip, heavier and more desperate than a wild boar.

“That’s what _you_ think,” he chokes out, swinging an arm stump blindly at your face.

“Hope _will_ win,” you insist, pinning him down, disturbed at his despair. Is that the beginning of sympathy stirring in your chest? “Humanity and androids _will_ win.”

He laughs without mirth; you bury your sword in his chest in a futile attempt to silence his reply. What looks like blood gushes forth like a fountain, yet he no longer screams. You don’t think you can handle this conversation any longer. “I like… that about you, 2B. But this…”

You close your eyes.

“…This is not… a competition,” he whispers, his warm blood spreading and pooling under your dress, and you feel yourself abruptly power the blade through his black box.

( _Because you are scared that he might be right._ )

 

 

You make sure to introduce him to everyone in the Bunker the next time you meet each other.

“… And this is 9S. 9S, say hello.”

“That’s the _fifth_ resistance member,” he complains twenty minutes later, impatiently cutting through some small stubbies and two bipeds with a spear. _So much for not being a combat model._ “I don’t recall _socializing_ to be a part of our orders –”

“I am your superior. I’ll make this an order if I have to.”

“… Buuuuut why? Everything suggests that his partner has deserted, and he’s just –”

You secretly breathe a sigh of relief. This response is definitely better than the one given by the last 9S, who has run off insisting that everything is meaningless and just an utter waste of time.

 

 

_He will know more than he should. Stop him._

You wait.

Perhaps it’ll be harder this time because he’s somehow less cold and a touch more playful.

Perhaps you’ve thought about it and decided it doesn’t matter.

He’s standing and leaning down in knee-deep water, collecting the shattered pieces of the Monster Type you had just destroyed. He had objected to killing the machine; _it wasn’t strictly mentioned by the Command order, and it’ll be useful to study_ , he had argued, and the scanner had utterly refused to help you as you spent the better part of an hour taking the creature down. Maybe he knows you plan to terminate him today. Maybe he hopes that acting naively and draining your energy will give him a chance.

(You’ll toss his body down the cliff where it’ll never be found.)

(Not even by him.)

“Say, ma’am?” He asks, far more plaintive than angry, reaching for you – _is he waiting for you to pull him up?_ – as you wade through the stream, burned machine grease still sticky and foul smelling in your hair. “What would you do if –”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, but he does linger long enough to realize what you’ve done, and the maniacal laughter combined with the two heartbroken sobs at the end makes you decide to avoid killing him there from then on.

( _Nothing is or would ever be okay_ , his dying gaze used to always say before, dark and empty and drowning in an endless ocean. But now the look has turned into a desperate question of _will it ever be okay_ and you don’t have the heart – don’t want to _have_ the heart – to say no.)

 

 

“This can’t be right,” you argue with the operators and the commander, blinking furiously under the blinding pure white light of the Bunker. “Something must have gone wrong.”

“He’s not the only one who has changed, 2E,” The Commander notes, her voice sharp. “You have as well. The effects are natural – we are created in humanity’s image, which allows us to adapt and evolve even through death and memory wipes. The two of you have grown as partners. Over the last year, your mission efficacy has improved dramatically. I do not see a problem with these ‘changes’ you speak of.”

You fall silent.

During the last two cycles, it has become glaringly apparent that 9S has… changed. You haven’t thought that the small things you’ve done would have such a dramatic impact. The cynical and often self-destructive android in your earliest memories has somehow lost most of his edges; around you now, he’s often cheerful and enthusiastic, almost kind, and you don’t think you can continue to carry out the missions if –

“I like you this way as well, 2B!” 6O interjects, her eyes shining with – is that what humans used to call _friendly_ _adoration_? “The past few missions I’ve done with you and 9S are some of my fav… I mean, some of the most noteworthy. We’ve destroyed several goliaths and might even have leads on the aliens. Half the force is working off the intel you’ve gathered together!”

“I… understand. I apologize for being irrational about this, Commander, operator 6O.”

9S (is it the sixth 9S? Seventh? You really should have kept count) has been waiting for you in the Hangar and you blink as you take in the sight of him. Physically, he hasn’t changed at all. There’s still his scanner’s outfit with the jacket and boots, the simple hairstyle and skinny knees, that flawless neck where you had slit his throat just a few days ago… but what _is_ different is that smile, dawning across his features like the sun as he spots your entrance.

You turn a stern look on him, hoping to provoke or intimidate. Instead of antagonism or a smirk, you get a response that’s mixed surprised and crestfallen. He backs off, shuffles towards the side, and waits for you to board your flight unit.

_This is wrong. This is all wrong. Why can’t you just be all nonchalant like before? Why can’t you be cynical or irritated?_

“Was something wrong, Ma’am?” Concerned communication eventually chimes in as you enter the stratosphere. Even his _voice_ is different. “Did the Commander call off the mission, or…”

“Nothing has changed. Focus on the mission.”

_…Why are you seemingly becoming happier as I continue to cut you into pieces?_

 

 

“Why are you so curious?” You finally ask one day, watching him fish for garbage in the sewer beneath the amusement park, and he looks up in surprise, no doubt as confused as you are about the stupid question. But before you can take the question back – before you can pretend you’ve never asked – his brow furrows and he grins widely, responding in that cheery childlike voice that you’ve begrudgingly grown used to.

“I’m a scanner! It’s in my programming. Why, am I even more curious than the other scanners? Us 9S models are the best, of course –”

 _Your curiosity is different. Your curiosity is questioning. It’s because you go in already expecting an answer and somehow that answer has turned from something very dark to something very bright_. “Does scanning make you _happy_ , 9S?”

He pulls out the pod and turns towards you in apparent bewilderment. You also don’t fail to note the mildly flustered look on his face. “I mean, does fighting make you happy, 2B?”

 _I definitely don’t enjoy being 2E anymore_. “I like getting in the thick of things to protect androids and mankind. Does that work for you?”

“I…” His face turns thoughtful. _Please tell me you haven’t even remotely thought about the main server yet. This is too early. Even the Commander would not be happy to see you dead just two weeks in._ “I like scanning, I like learning new things, it gives me faith that this world and our cause are worth fighting and dying for.” _Bad reason_. “But, 2B, if I can really be honest, I think I just enjoy being with you! Your presence is so reassuring, and – ow –”

“Now stop that. Emotions are prohibited, remember?”

“…. Okay, okay.”

 

 

This time he dies defenseless in his sleep, and you carry him through the City Ruins, past all the moose he used to compulsively feed and all the boar he used to compulsively chase. How many days did you spend trying to run away from the biggest boars? Two? Three? It had been useful, as a distraction. A 9S that is actively running for his life cannot hack the main server. A 9S that’s actively running would smile at you, laugh at you, just _be_ …

You carry him over the bridge and into the commercial district. You’d have to return to kill all the animals later, lest the next 9S find out that he’s bonded with them in a previous life.

Why did you do this to yourself? In a moment of weakness and pity you had overlooked duty and tried to give your lives some kind of meaning, and the next thing you know, he’s changed and you’ve changed and everything just kind of hurts in the background. 9S has swung from nihilism and cynicism into some strange kind of idealist, trusting and wanting to learn more about each and every thing he sees. The Bunker programming only succeeds in maintaining his mistrust of the machines, yet even with that, more often than not, you’re still finding yourself having to rein him in, stop him from just running off in pursuit of new knowledge.

 _You could always just ask for a complete data overhaul and memory wipe_ , a small voice in the back of your mind says, as you carefully lay 9S down by the solitary lunar tear. _You could always pretend you had nothing to do with any of this. That the two of you have always been like this. Or ask for some kind of return to the beginning, before it started bothering you in the first place…_

 _I have to be responsible_ , another voice argues back, first meekly, then forcefully. _I have to be responsible for myself…_

_And for 9S._

You ignore the other part of your logical circuits that questions whether you _should_ be responsible for 9S in the first place.

“This version of you liked flowers,” you hear yourself say, wooden and – if you didn’t know yourself better, you’d say _shell-shocked_. But this 9S didn’t even have a chance to fight back. It’s probably because you had deliberately sought the moment, _afraid_ that he won’t fight back. “You insisted on putting that one lunar tear in my hair and I never got to put one in yours and I’m so very sorry and…”

Humans used to leave flowers for their fallen comrades, right? You can also say he’s a… cherished person, right?

You can’t leave him here for long, but perhaps you can give him something in return when he comes back, still smiling, still craving things he can never have. You’ve killed too many versions of 9S without knowing how to distinguish between any one of them.

_He deserves better._

Perhaps you’ll try to give him a name.

“9… S,” you recite. Or is it a call, an android’s futile mimicry of human mourning and memory? He sleeps. You are still trying to wake. “YoRHa No. 9 type S.” Do you call him a flower? No, the first versions of him you met were too dark for that. He can’t be a Rose, a Dandelion, or a Zinnia. He’s YoRHa, through and through, regardless of how much he may curse that as he falls into his eternal (temporary) (eternal) sleep. And how will you identify with him, selfishly call him _yours_ , if his name will become as alien and distant as the 9Ses themselves? “9S… _Nines_ …”

That last syllable gives you pause. Pod 042 has received the transmission. They’ll come to take him away any time now. You’ll only have another minute with this… this 9S.

“Sweet dreams, Nines,” you whisper, holding his collapsed body up for a final embrace, almost willing – uselessly but desperately praying – to transfer heat and consciousness and longing from your body to his. He’ll be back. You’ll need to restrain yourself when he’s around again. You shouldn’t even be doing this right now. There will never be real peace or intimacy…

_It’ll be okay. I’ll find a way to make it okay._

“I’ll be with you before long…”


	2. Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not completely happy with the chronology and parts-ordering of this chapter, but I don't think I'm going to figure it out for a good while OTL so have this as I continue to try to tinker with it and make edits.
> 
> Also I lied. There's a third chapter(let). Because you are all going to suffer with me.

_Do you love him?_ The imaginary pod in your memory space

prods,

more sympathetic than your real pod ever will be.

(You are your real pod, after all. The imaginary pod is just a splinter of your identity

like 9S’ smile is a splinter of his, unintended but precious fragments

crying out for release.)

_Would the answer be “yes”_

_if I simply wish for him_

_to continue to be?_

 

 

When you sleep, you dream: not of being flung several hundred feet through the air by Grȕn, not of the seething sensation of electricity and blood-lusting _hate_ when Adam had hung up 9S on that wall of pure white, not of death, or even sin and redemption –

You dream of 9S’ face and how it has grown ( _oh how has it transformed_ ) from that of a nuclear wasteland to a kingdom of carefreeness and joy, and you wonder what has watered it all – has it been his tears, or your own?

(You look down on the limp body of the beautiful monstrous child you have created and vows – again – to never let him understand pain.)

 

In the past – it probably feels like lifetimes ago because it has been, at least for one of you – 9S would always keep his distance, study you behind your back as if you were another moose or machine. There’d be something automatic and analytical behind that visor even as you talked about the most mundane things.

You had thought it one of his greatest strengths, once upon a time. That he didn’t trust. That he excelled at lying. That you could never quite guess what was on his mind –

_2B!_

_Look at this, 2B!_

_Help me get over this wall, 2B!_

_You can’t believe what I’ve just found in this chest, 2B!_

You give up reminiscing.

“Ow,” 9S says, looking up at you sheepishly as you turn a questioning eye towards him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you – I probably just need to get some rest…”

“It’s fine, 9S. Let’s head to the Resistance Camp.”

“Just let me do this one last thing! I’m almost done hacking into this goliath. Come on, we’ve already spent so much time here, it _has_ to tell us something…”

You squint. His eyes are again filled with hopeful light, his face again dangerously close to your own. So you think dimly to yourself,

_Oh,_

_What a cruel yet wonderful world._

How far have the two of you even gone? He’s eagerly running up a mountain of prayers and desperate inspiration and you are left to chase, always catching him just for one instant before he melts into the air. Every time you end up a bit higher up the hill. Every time it makes for a bigger fall.

Just a few days before, surrounded by multiple goliaths at the Abandoned Factory, he had snuck up on you, reaching for your hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world and later revealing that he had uploaded your data before his own – _Nines, we are supposed to have only known each other for a few hours –_

_Don’t touch me. Don’t get too close. Don’t breathe near me. Don’t…_

The words had all too soon dissipated into forlorn static. Maybe you’re the one who’s thinking too much. Maybe you’re the one in denial. What’s to say this isn’t within the confines of normal YoRHa behavior? What’s to say you can’t acquiesce to things like that as long as you will fulfill your promise again at the end?

(You are always the most tender in the last few minutes of his lives.)

 

Innocence and purity are but façades; you had learned that the raw way, as he destroyed himself in front of you, not once but twice, lips barely moving in pleas for a promise as his systems failed one after the other and the beloved became nothing more than dead weight. You had cradled him for a long time after, _etched_ into your memory where he had willingly cut himself open; it was one thing to know where _you_ had invaded his world and mercilessly kicked down all the pillars holding up his sky, and another to never forget the ludicrous depth of his sacrifice.

_9S… Nines… I can’t… I can’t even begin to comprehend…_

_How can I tell you – how can I ever hope to convince you – that your life, your memories, your soul – are important_

_(not to say the greatest treasures of my life)_

_when I can only callously demolish your existence, time after time?_

You’ve taught him that there are things worth protecting and living for in this world. You just wish he hasn’t gone ahead and made your life more important than his own.

_Why me?_ You cry out against the uncaring void of the world, a single black dot in a sea of white data and Bunker lights. Every dead 9S is another dead belief in the world of faith. Every dead 9S makes everything else mean a little less. _What can I give – what have I been giving – that the rest of the world cannot?_

( _Hope_ , your imaginary pod says somberly, following 9S’ ever-steadier footsteps through all his lives and deaths. He’s always running, chasing seeking believing, the arrow of his cursor pointed towards a light at the end of a circular tunnel. _You give him hope_.)

( _No! Come back!_ )

_(What even is the point… of chasing after me…)_

_(When all I’ve ever wanted is for you to turn back and…)_

_(Look… at me…)_

 

_Nines…_

Out of his room in the Bunker, out of the teleporter, out under the wide sky and bathed under the pristine sunlight – he’s always so flawless, so _bright_ , because you’ve willed it so, sworn to utterly crush anything that so much as _sneezes_ in his general direction.

He _will_ be whole and complete, smiling and shining, _glowing_ …

You’ve seen the others before, machines that have been repaired a thousand times, bipeds hastily created by putting scrap sockets and plates together and charging through a jolt of leftover energy. Nothing could ever match 9S, not the way he marches and dances forward carrying all the invisible lethal wounds and fault lines under his skin. Nothing could be that fundamentally broken yet still flare with such brilliance…

_You were already broken when I first met you. Is it even possible to break a black box – a heart, a soul – to something so fine that it is whole again?_

You are laughable mimicries of humans, two pawns trying to swim in a vast and cruel world, subject to resets and storms and public ridicule, but if 9S can be brave, so can you. You owe it to him. You owe it to yourself. You will always continue to owe…

(You realize belatedly with a sinking feeling that 9S must have jumped between a half dozen machine bodies – and destroyed every single one – to get you out that one time.)

_Are we running out of time_? You question, remembering Adam and Eve and the way the Commander had seemed to falter the last time she had given you the termination order, face-to-face in the Bunker. 9S has shown that he no longer poses a threat to the force if he learns the truth. You’ve destroyed the two entities in control of the machine network. _What if, after everything, there is a silver lining after all…?_

You’ve always been afraid to hope. But if 9S… depends on you for it, then perhaps you can try.


	3. Iridescence

( _Do you love him_? The imaginary pod

 _screams_ ,

as the Bunker is consumed by fire and craze

the simultaneous explosions of a half thousand black boxes

and myriad meteoric fragments of android dreams

 _Do you love anything_?)

_IF I DO, WOULD IT CHANGE ANYTHING?_

 

~~(the dreams in which you’re dying are the best you’ve ever had)~~

 

_I could leave him a message._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The world has been lost to fire and ice. The body has been lost to madness. But then, one yet remains in the universe:

His face, contorted and crumbling in monochromatic agony.

 

( _If only you were not fated to break_ )

 

_Oh… Nines…_

 

All that matters is his life.

 

_9S… the time I was able to spend with you…_

_It was like memories of pure light…_

 

(and the smile you’ve been given…)

 

_Thank you… Nine…s…_


End file.
